The Visit
by Ryuiki Kitana
Summary: It's been a while since Watson has moved in with Mary, and Holmes decided to send him a letter... What happens when he actually get's one back? Watson/Holmes. OneShot


_My Dear Watson --_

No—he couldn't possibly start that way; it made him seem far too needy.

_Watson --_

Too casual…

_To John H' Watson. --_

Too formal.

He tossed aside the third piece of paper before standing to fetch the first, deciding it was best to just stick to familiarities.

_It has been three…_

Three? Four? Three.

_It has been three months since your departure of our rooms here at 221b Baker Street and it seems that all has nearly remained the same, with or without you._

Even when Holmes wrote that, he had to think it over. It all appeared the same—the rooms were in the same state as it had been months ago, for he really had not been living in 221b Baker Street much at all.

_I have been boxing lately and have earned you quite a sum…_

Not like Watson would be home to use it…_…But I have had to spend some of it on suitable food for our dog. Gladstone misses , Sherlock Holmes_

It was a relief that he was able to end the letter correctly, eyeing a few of the small marks from his pen and covering them simply by adding a few bits of extra calligraphic marks. He would leave the letter to dry, to sink in, to register before he sent it off to his only friend. Shaking his head, he knelt by their dog, gently scratching at the many folds in a fond manner.

Quite a cute pup he had been, when Watson first brought him home… He was still rather cute, but also growing tired. Holmes could agree. Without much thinking involved he lay on the floor next to his and Watson's dog, waiting for the creature to curl next to him as he always would.

It was the closest he would get to what happened in his dreams--curled up to his doctor.

Why did he think like that? His doctor? John H. Watson was married to a kind woman… A Kind woman who didn't seem to mind him. That was always good. Perhaps next time, Holmes would just show up in their-- …No. That was an unwise idea.

Although he had just settled onto the floor, Holmes stood, shrugging out of his bracers and shirt to look at the damage to his chest and arms. Scratches, bruises, perhaps one broken rib. No other doctors would do, so he was dealing with it all on his own. With the rib he merely had to be careful, perhaps once Lestrade found out he would be made to see a doctor, but he did not wish to.

He had given himself a few stitches, to the cuts that would not stay closed on their own, but naturally, they were not truly the best…But he had succeeded in keeping the wounds all clean, so there would be no infections, not that he could find at least.

Perhaps this nagging feeling for Watson could count as an infection.

With a sigh the detective bent carefully to pick up his shirt, dressing slowly and carefully for another night out…Another night betting and being beaten until his instincts set in, and his opponent would be out for months.

----

His return home was much less graceful than his departure, the damage moving down to his legs now, quite a few bruises decorating his shins as well as the side of his thighs. Kicking. It was something he would have to work on. After all his expertise was with his hands. How long had he been gone? Perhaps a day or two?

Moving slowly up the stairs he flipped through the mail at the door, breath catching at the all too familiar handwriting on the envelope.

Holmes left the rest on the floor, moving into his study and seemingly tearing open the return letter from his friend.

_Holmes,It is refreshing to hear from you after so long- Indeed, it has been nearly five months-_

Five? He was off by two? How did that happen? The man paused his reading and looked to the side, picking up the paper and reading the date.

Indeed… It was two months later then he had imagined it was… Chocolate hues darted back to the letter then.

_[Your math is incorrect, Holmes] --_

Naturally, months had rolled by without him…

_--since Mary and I were wed. Believe me Holmes, we are blissfully happy together, alone here in our new home._

So he was not missed. He could feel his heart drop along with the letter… Though the letter stopped at the floor. Perhaps it had been a bluff? After all, why 'say alone in our home' if he was not trying to make something obvious.

The Genius bent quickly with a groan, ignoring the protest in his beaten frame and reading through the rest of the letter.

_Though I dread to think of poor Gladston alone with you for so long; perhaps I shall call soon to see him. I miss him ,John H. Watson, M.D._

He read it all through three or four more times, eyes darting from word to word to note the difference in Watson's writing.

Either Watson was getting worse at writing during the last few sentences or he was forcing himself to write it at all. It seemed like he had forgotten to cross the 't' on 'together' entirely. Quite silly actually, how would he expect someone to read that if he was forgetting vital bits of letters… Then again, he had sent it to the one of the most brilliant minds in all of the United Kingdom.

How long would he have?

One day? Two? How long until Watson came as he said he would.

He moved to the mirror again to check his face, wanting to be certain that he didn't look too beaten. After all he didn't want the visit to become something of business for the doctor.

Holmes wouldn't let his doctor know he was hurt, and that he was doing so to combat the loneliness that came from living alone.

With a bit of effort he began to clean up, putting the portrait of John facedown as well as the one of Irene. It wouldn't do for the medical man to come to conclusions. Carefully Holmes lifted Gladston, the large dog making a sound of protest as he was carried down the stairs to Ms. Hudson's room, for the days that she ended up staying of course.

With a few soft words, he asked her to look after the animal, handing over a bit of money for Gladston's food and anything else really.

He wouldn't explain why--he never did anymore.

Carefully moving back up the stairs. he shut himself into the study, waiting, playing his Violin.

He was unsure of the time that passed, but soon enough, without sleep even, he herd that familiar hobble, the sound of the sane and his friends breath.

Relief rushed over him as he dropped the instrument, moving to open the door and forcing the smile away.

He said nothing and went back into the room, moving over to stare at the building across the way, trying to lose his focus in the bustle of the street below. That was when it registered that Watson had spoken… His dog? Their dog."I believe Ms. Hudson has him. Please don't be cross." Holmes couldn't stop the saddened quirk in his voice, the idea of the only person he really wanted around being angry at him working it's way into his emotions."Then why am I here?" There was a huff. Did Watson really mean that? Had he truly only come to see their dog? Holmes turned, staring the other male down and very slightly inching forward.

"I…Had hoped you might stay for tea?"

He knew he was staring now, and he knew that Watson would stay… But why, he didn't quite know, was that pity lingering in those stunning blue eyes as the doctor seated himself in his rightful chair. Holmes moved slowly then, working on getting the tea together with a slightly shaking hand. He poured two cups, putting quite a bit of sugar into his and hesitating with the other males.

Did he still prefer it without alteration?

"Sugar?" Best to make sure…

"No…"

At least he was right about this.

As he handed over the tea, he could practically feel the eyes on his hand, but the sound of the cup falling and shattering still managed to surprise the genius. But he knelt quickly, ignoring the groan of pain that caught in his throat at the touch of a bruised knee to the floor.

"Oh, I shall get it"

"No, I shall…"

Contact.

After five months the first contact he had had with his friend was accidental, he could feel the skilled fingers brushing over his damaged hand, the nerves practically burning at the simple action. Looking up his mind was jerked to reality with a soft word.

"Enough." Who had…?The thought was cut off when he moved forward slightly, his swollen lips meeting with the doctors perfect ones, thrilling at the taste of gin and tea, even the little hint of a cigar. The same as always, this was what he had imagined Watson to taste like… Carefully his hand moved then, resting gently on the one he knew would later take care of the aches in his whole frame.

He had to pull away, just for breath, if he didn't have to breathe he would have still been pressing into it.

"Watson…" His voice barely a whisper he couldn't look away, but he couldn't quite keep the gaze, so curious eyes locked on the lips that had met with his seconds before."It's John."

They were kissing again, Watson's…no, John's hand moving to his shoulder and almost pulling him into this one.

Divine. Thrilling. Perfect. It was all he wanted, all he could focus on…

And he had thought Mycroft was queer…

It must run in the family then, because this doctor had stolen his heart.


End file.
